


sure things

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Flirting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-02 18:26:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11514957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: “You’re never going to get his attention that way,” a man says from over his shoulder. When Gil turns, he finds himself face-to-face with a human, maybe a little younger than him, about the same height. Hot, definitely. A tight smile crosses his mouth and mischief dances in his eyes along with a hint of knife-sharp danger. Even so, Gil isn’t afraid. The man’s voice is far too warm for that. He gestures, gallant. “Might I?”





	sure things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FallingOverSideways](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallingOverSideways/gifts).



Gil doesn’t always make it off the Tempest when it docks on Aya or Elaadan or Voeld—which, thank goodness for that to be honest, who wants to visit Voeld voluntarily—too much to do on the ship after all, but when he does, it ends up being Kadara, of course. Because Gil’s life up until this point has been a series of dice rolls and he hasn’t yet found himself in mortal peril on the ground. In the air, sure. In space, definitely. Once, on the Nexus, which had been an interesting and terrifying experience to be sure.

But on a real, true planetary surface? Where the dirt is dirt and the gravity is all natural? Not yet. Not until today anyway.

Fuck his life, seriously.

“Can’t you do it?” he’d asked Vetra as soon as he’d realized why the Tempest’s engine is crackling in that particularly noisome way. Just the sound of it grates on Gil’s nerves. “Isn’t it your job to procure much needed supplies?”

She’d stared down at him, features poker-blank, her arms crossed over her chestplate. “Do you really want to trust me to know the right valve from the thirty different wrong ones it could be? On _Kadara_?”

Gil had sighed, utterly defeated. Because she’d been right. Vetra is good people and smart and better than that: sensible. But her expertise is not very experimental, very delicate, very important machinery that is meant to get people from one point in galactic space to another one as quickly as possible. “Fine,” he’d conceded, most graciously if he were to rate himself on graciousness, “I’ll do it.”

He hadn’t, and still doesn’t, like that fact.

And for good reason in his opinion. Kadara is noisy and it’s hot and the rotten-egg scent of sulfur hangs to the air even though their illustrious Pathfinder had told him that it could be worse. He could’ve had to come down _before_ the vault was activated.

Apparently this is an improvement. Gil wouldn’t know obviously, but it still seems perfectly terrible to him.

He winds his way through the morass of bodies outside the entrance to the city and he works past the malingering looks thrown at him as he pushes toward the various stalls Vetra had told him would probably have what he’s looking for.

Stepping up to the first stall, he squares his shoulders. “Excuse me,” he says, doing his best to appear like he has decent manners and patience. The salarian running the stall glances at him and dismisses him within the twitch of an eye and Gil can’t decide if he’s offended by that or not. “Excuse me.”

“You’re never going to get his attention that way,” a man says from over his shoulder. When Gil turns, he finds himself face-to-face with a human, maybe a little younger than him, about the same height. Hot, definitely. A tight smile crosses his mouth and mischief dances in his eyes along with a hint of knife-sharp danger. Even so, Gil isn’t afraid. The man’s voice is far too warm for that. He gestures, gallant. “Might I?”

Gil gestures in return. “Be my guest.”

Tipping his head in acknowledgment, the man clears his throat and forces his way into Gil’s space. The thick scent of ozone clings to him, preferable to the stench of sulfur, as does the clean, uninspired soap they’d all used to use on the Nexus before trade with Aya began in earnest. The man offered him a long, lingering look and an arched eyebrow. _Watch_ , it says, _and learn_. “I do believe the gentleman here is trying to get your attention. It’ll be such a pity if he must return to the Tempest empty-handed due to your negligence of him. Where _is_ your avarice today, my friend?”

The salarian stills and his already wide eyes widen even more. They flick to Gil again, those eyes, and this time there’s interest there. And greed. But still, progress. “Shena,” he says and it’s at that point that Gil realizes he knows this man. Or… he knows _of_ him anyway. “Mind your own fucking business, would you?”

Reyes Vidal. The puppetmaster of Kadara. “Of course,” he says, still friendly, like he couldn’t just wish this man incapacitated or worse on a whim. Not that he would, Gil supposes, the Pathfinder isn’t the type to make deals with monsters and he’s had more than a few chances to do that so far. “I’m merely looking out for your best interests, of course. One good word to the Pathfinder from its brilliant engineer? Surely that’s worth something to you.”

Reyes elbows him in the side, discreet; if they weren’t standing so close to one another, Gil might not have felt it. As it is, he has a hard time not boggling at Reyes. How does he know who Gil is? They’d never met. He doubts the Pathfinder spends a lot of time chitchatting about the rest of the crew… 

He swallows. The Pathfinder had never seen fit to mention that Reyes is, well, who and what he is. Good-looking and arrogant and slick. He probably plays a mean hand of poker. If Gil were to lay claim to a type—which he doesn’t, why box himself in like that?—Reyes would be it. “Oh, yeah,” he says, well aware that the Pathfinder won’t care one way or the other about Gil’s opinion of the local shops and rightfully so. Even Gil doesn’t much care and he’s as invested right now as he’ll ever be. “This’ll be their favorite shop in Kadara Port for sure.”

The disdain with which this comment is greeted can’t quite dim the glimmer of hopefulness Gil sees there. “How can I help you?”

Gil rattles off the part number, the specifications, and the manufacturer.

The salarian merely stares back at him, scratches his head, and then shrugs as though the first two things weren’t answer enough.

“Yeah,” Gil says, “didn’t think so.” This is going to be a long, long, very long day.

And then Reyes eyes him, curious, and grabs him by the elbow. Hauling Gil away, he leans in close. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, the CinecoSpec M45T-6 half-meter is not intended for use on interstellar ships.”

Gil, who likes to pretend he’s seen everything, doesn’t allow his surprise to show. Much. “You know ships?”

Reyes’s teeth glint under the Kadaran sun. For a split second, in fact, Gil forgets this place is a shithole. “Enough to be dangerous.”

Gil, who has actually seen a lot, doesn’t allow his disappointment to show. _Much_. “You’re a pilot,” because anyone who’d say what Reyes just did is bound to be. It’s like a law of the fucking universe or something.

Reyes, who has proved himself to have an excellent smile and good humor to spare, laughs as though he doesn’t know the meaning of holding back. It does, however, confirm Gil’s worst fears. “You’re very smart, Gil Brodie. I like that in a man.”

Gil doesn’t have to ask how Reyes knows his name, too. Presumably the Pathfinder told him. Or he’d done a little digging for himself. Doesn’t really matter. He pulls himself free of Reyes’s grasp and doesn’t regret it for more than a moment. “It’s too bad I don’t like men who are pilots.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll find at least one reason to like me shortly,” Reyes says, demur. “Particularly once I help you out of the tight spot you’re in.” He doesn’t go quite so far as to rake his gaze over Gil’s body—not, admittedly, that Gil would have minded exactly—but the way his eyes slip down a bit? Yeah, Gil’s not unobservant. Not in the slightest. It’s unfortunate that he’s not immune either.

Reyes is a good-looking man.

For a pilot.

 _Ugh_. “Pilots,” Gil says, scoffing.

“Always so presumptuous, I know,” Reyes agrees, cheerful. “Would you trust me if I said I was always so? It predates the piloting by at least a decade.”

“Is that supposed to make it better?”

“It can’t make it any worse, can it?” Reyes nudges his shoulder, friendly. “Come on. Live a little.” He jostles Gil a second time. “How about a wager then? I hear you like placing bets.”

Gil eyes him, suspicious. “Depends on the bet.”

Puffing up, Reyes places his hand on his chest and then briefly consults his omnitool, the flash of orange there and gone within seconds. “If I manage to improve your mood within the next thirty minutes, you’ll go on a date with me.”

“I don’t have thirty minutes. I have to find this part.” Which will probably take all day anyway.

Reyes’s hand clamps down on Gil’s shoulder. His thumb digs into the muscles of Gil’s back and then fans across his shoulder blade. “Two birds,” he says. “Do consider having a little faith.”

 _Pilots_ , Gil reminds himself. They never take no for an answer. “Fine,” he says, “but if I’m late, you’re explaining why to Ryder.”

“Oh, gladly.” He jerks his head toward the opposite end of the walled portion of the port. Where the slums are, if his very rudimentary knowledge of Kadara is accurate. _Joy_. “This way.”

‘This way’ is a twenty minute walk that ends with a lift and an unimpressive view of the wilds of Kadara from across a half-assed wall and a checkpoint. Kadara. Truly a lovely place. It’s a wonder anyone comes to the outpost here at all.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” Gil points out.

Reyes waggles his eyebrows. “I only need ten.”

Gil rolls his eyes and mouths the word pilot at him, but goes along with him anyway.

They pass a bar that is, sadly, not the worst Gil’s ever been in the vicinity of. At least there’s no one out front looking for a conveniently shadowed corner to use as a bathroom. “Tartarus,” Reyes says, offhand, waving his hand at the thing as they round the back. There’s a small shed and Gil really, really has to remind himself that Ryder trusts this guy. And Ryder’s a Pathfinder. And has never made a rash decision ever.

Okay, bad reminder.

A couple of beeps ring out as Reyes keys in a code on the door and then suddenly the door is open and there’s a motorcycle and a wall full of parts for said motorcycle. Or, well. They’re not really _for_ motorcycles, but Reyes seems to be using them to that end anyway. “What? You can’t find yourself a shuttle?”

“I have shuttles,” Reyes answers, striding forward. Along the back wall stands a table strewn with various doodads. He mutters to himself and Gil, starting to feel awkward, catalogues the various bits nearest to him. A lot of custom pieces, printed to exact specifications in quality metals. Gil could find a lot of uses for stuff like this. He stares at the back of Reyes’s head for a moment and wonders if Ryder would put some pressure on him. Guy seems like he’s got a conscience buried in that mercenary heart of his. Might be he could help Gil out.

Kallo might hate it, but Kallo hates most things Gil does.

“Here we go.” Reyes spins on his heels and lobs a silver tube at Gil. “Twenty-nine minutes. I’ve still got a minute to spare. I’ve been told I make excellent use of my—”

“This isn’t—” But it is. And, in fact, it’s better.

“—mouth.” Reyes walks toward him again, not quite sauntering. There isn’t enough room in here _to_ saunter, not between the bike and the tables and the _stuff_ everywhere. “And I believe that’s exactly what you need to kill the crackling in your engine. The CinecoSpec will—”

“—break in six months if I’m lucky and I’ll just be looking for another one. Yes, I’m well aware.”

“You ought to get a year out of that, if not more, and unlike CinecoSpecs, these are Andromeda-made and therefore _not_ the most precious of commodities. Your pilot should be pleased as well,” Reyes says. “You’re welcome. You’re also smiling, I might add. It’s a good look for you.”

“I’m _not_ —” But he is. He can feel it, the stretch and burn of the muscles in his cheek. He’s been smiling for a while now. Reyes has just been kind enough not to point it out.

“There’s a restaurant of reasonably good standing in the port. Decent drinks. Not bad as far as such things go” Reyes rolls his shoulders. “And you now have the rest of the day free. Would you care to join me?”

“I’m not one to welch on a bet,” Gil answers because he has no better one and he doesn’t mind the plausibility of the excuse.

He’s never much liked pilots.

But maybe he can make an exception.


End file.
